


Spooky Action at a Distance

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: ...so i think i'll just lean into the urge despite my fingers unwillingness to hit the right keys, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Oral Sex, UGHGHGHG, and gosh that bearded face just about drops me, every cell in the body recognized and appreciated for what it is, i realized halfway through that it's hurt and comfort, i think i know it straight down, it came out all in one sitting and all on paper, it shouldn't surprise me how deeply that trope speaks to me, most of my stuff comes out on paper but never from top to bottom like this one, once again i want to vomit in the tags, right through, the image of being held like that that brings me to a kind of emotional fervor, this was strange to write, to receive comfort and believe in its authenticity, to the quick, well!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 02:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Summary: title comes from the film, only lovers left alive. thank you to everybody who reads these pieces! enjoy <33





	Spooky Action at a Distance

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the film, only lovers left alive. thank you to everybody who reads these pieces! enjoy <33

_ July 5, 1971 _

She wakes with a start. Frenetic breathing and a heart that knocks in her chest as though it wants out. Faint threads of a dream leave her fuzzy and patting blindly for the bedside lamp. Nothing.

Her pulse speeds up and she silently commands it to stop. But still, the light won’t click on.

It’s then she hears it. Or rather, hears nothing. No thrum of the fridge or buzz of electricity. Nothing.

“Shit,” she whispers to the dark.

Her night vision’s never been great. And as she pads cautiously to the bedroom door, she gets another rift of anxiety. It clutches her throat and makes her hands feel strange. Like they belong to someone else. She has to pause at the threshold. 

“Stop it,” she mutters in a rough voice. “Get some shoes, and then flip the breaker.”

Her heart flutters in protest. But she’s done this many times with Jimmy. And by herself, she reminds her unwilling feet.

Still a bit muddled, she makes it to the hall and pulls on the first pair of shoes available. The wellies slip on too easily. They must belong to Jimmy. Her eyes adjust enough to retrieve the flashlight hanging on the hook above their shoes. They close almost immediately at the harsh blare of light.

She curses whatever dream has prompted such a burst of anxiety and tries to cast her mind elsewhere. Jimmy had called from Italy just two days ago, excited about the gig. Milan, bustling and exciting and its fans ravenous to hear them play. 

They must be onstage now, she thinks, free hand gliding along the wall as she makes her way to the basement. The uneven stairs creak and gasp beneath her boots. Thunder cracks suddenly and, stupidly, she flinches. Admonishes her jumpiness.

It’s just round the corner. She knows exactly what to do. Can hear Jimmy’s voice while he holds the flashlight for her and talks to her in his sleep-jumbled way. One flipped switch later, and electricity buzzes and hums and so does she - in satisfaction. Nothing to worry about.

Another crack of thunder shakes the foundation of the house. The river must be rising. She stalks resolutely to the stairs. Her steps are inexplicably harried by a frisson of damnable anxiety up her spine. And when the toe of her boot catches the stair, she goes down with a cry that splits the silence, shocks her own ears.

The flashlight clatters below and sends jagged shadows to her back. Pain steaks over her forehead and knees. Stricken for a moment, paralyzed, she squeezes her eyes shut.

“It’s okay,” she says to herself, tries to imagine it’s his voice instead. Squeezes her eyes tighter. “You’re alright. Get up.”

She gathers the torch and flicks the light on at the landing. Everything familiar lit up and sitting peacefully. She thinks herself foolish for all those nerves and the fall. Resolves to ring Jimmy tomorrow; they can laugh about it then. Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, the clock shows one in the morning, she curls onto the sofa and sleeps. The lights stay on.

Morning chases away nothing. She tries to shove away the niggling feeling that something’s off, with little success. Staring blankly into her mug of cold coffee, she remembers her plans to ring Jimmy. As if on cue, the telephone rings. She forces herself not to launch toward it like a crazed woman.

“Have you gotten the paper?”

Voice uncharacteristically grave and urgent, her brother repeats the question. It takes her a moment to respond. 

“The paper? No, no I haven’t gotten it. Why?”

Andy shifts in the background and she senses a cliff of hesitation.

“What is it?” She makes her voice strong but it carries tension anyway. She tries again. “What’s wrong, Andy?”

“Milan rioted last night. The police tear gassed the kids...” his voice is muffled a bit; she sees him rubbing his palm over his face as he speaks, “...bloody awful violence.”

Knuckles white on the receiver, she asks, “Was Jimmy hurt?”

“No, some roadies got injured, though. Crowd took most of the brunt.”

“Any fatalities?”

“No.”

Voice gone papery and thin, she nods to the opposite wall.

“Okay. Thank you, Andy. I’ve got to go now.”

“Wait, Em-”

Itchy discomfort plagues her on the train, then the plane, each stride she makes from terminal to exit accompanied with a rush of worry. For a moment, she considers the possibility of a rash or hives - some tangible explanation. A rudimentary grasp on Italian aids her in arranging transportation to the hotel. Late afternoon and all looks normal on the streets, or seems to be from her daze.

Her fingers feel numb, alien as they clasp the paper. Every jolt of the car down the narrow way makes her stomach lurch. She can’t make out much of the text, save for smattering of words, but the image speaks volumes. Vigorelli Velodrome in chaos, plumes of white barely distinguishable. A site of disaster. Unease in the paper itself. She flexes her hand enough to pay the driver and steps from the car and into the hotel.

At the front desk, a bright smile greets her and asks how long she’ll be staying. She shakes her head.

“No, you see, I’m looking for Page. It’s possible he used a false name.”

The receptionist regards her suspiciously. 

“I apologize, Madam. Hotel staff are not at liberty to give private information.” Smile gone a bit tight, the receptionist offers, “Perhaps you’d like to speak to the manager.”

She looks away, frustrated tears smarting at her eyes, and only then does she notice the disturbing amount of police swarming about. All of them armed.

“Please,” she says. “I’m his-”

Her head snaps around at the voice calling her name.

“Robert,” she grasps his upper arm. “Where is he?”

Alarm edges Robert’s weary face.

“In his room. You want me-”

“ _ Yes _ ,” she says, voice sagging with emotion. “Yes. Please.”

Robert is silent in the lift, she barely notices his arm around her shoulder, sidling her though the crush of people in the hall. He clears his throat at the door. 

“He hasn’t answered all night, or this morning. Dunno if you want me to-”

“No,” she says flatly. “It’s alright. Thank you, Robert.”

He turns away in the midst of lighting a cigarette. Her knuckles rap the door with more force than she intends.

“Jimmy, open the door.”

For a split second, she worries he won’t answer. Then she’s being pulled inside. Pressed against warmth, circled in his arms. His voice shakes on her name, fingers combing repeatedly through her hair. She loses her sense of how long they stay against the closed door, locked and wordless. His every breath pulled deep and rough from his chest. She slips her hands beneath his untucked shirt and smoothes them over his taught back.

Suddenly, with barely leashed aggression, Jimmy begins to undress. His hands tremble at his trouser button. He tears them off as though they’d been strangling him. Then he reaches for her shirt. Has trouble with her bra. Toeing off her shoes, trying to get a good look at his face, she says,

“Slow down, Jimmy. Let me help you.”

Disheveled and breathing fast, he nods. She strips and barely holds her arms out before he crushes her against his chest. It’s clear he hasn’t bathed. She scans the pile of discarded garments: plaid pants streaked with dirt, a rip in the underarm of his shirt, patches of sweat stained in his pretty red sweater. A foul smell she can’t identify wafts from the fabric. 

Jimmy holds her tighter, burying his face in her neck. Both of them naked and pressed together like wet leaves. When his breathing returns to normal, she sits a kiss on his head.

“What can I do?”

“I tried to call you...” his voice wounded, “so many times. You wouldn’t pick up.”

She tangles her fingers in his hair and rubs another kiss to his crown.

“I’m sorry, my love. I left the minute I heard.”

His shoulder blades tighten between her palms then relax in a rush of breath.

“Do you want to sit down?”

Jimmy doesn’t respond. His arms flex around her, fingers kneading her hips as though to check.

“I’m here,” she murmurs, wanting so badly to see his face. “Sit with me.”

Slowly, they sink to the floor. Jimmy urges her onto his lap. She passes her hands over his hair and to his nape, working out the knots. After a long moment, he looks at her.

Tired eyes, mouth slack, and hair caught in his beard. Her heart squeezes. She clears him off as best she can with Jimmy still gnawing his fingers into her skin. Abruptly, his eyes focus on her forehead.

“What’s this?” He traces the tender bruise and the previous night floods her memory. “What happened?”

A half-hearted laugh leaves her. “I fell last night trying to get the electric started.”

He’s staring hard at the mark. Expression fixed with something like pain crimping his eyes.

“I’m fine,” she says evenly, pulling his fingers away to twine with hers. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

At that, Jimmy’s eyes close. He tugs her flush to his chest and tucks her head beneath his chin.

“You fell on the stairs?”

“Yes,” she replies to his collarbones. “Wasn’t wearing the right shoes, and just a bit nervy if I’m honest.”

He hugs her closer and makes a sympathetic sound.

“I really am fine, Jimmy.” When he doesn’t respond, she says, “Though I might’ve left the lights on.”

His body relaxes with a reluctant chuckle. Her fingertips glide and dance along his spine. 

“What are you thinking?” She kisses the question to his throat.

“We had to hide,” Jimmy manages weakly.

“Backstage?”

He nods above her. “Had to barricade the door. They kept chanting, and throwing things...just about anything available.”

She flattens her palms to his back and presses him closer.

“How long were you hiding?”

If she weren’t so close, his voice wouldn’t reach.

“Dunno, everything bled together. I keep thinking of smoke.”

She remembers the picture.

“What about it?” she asks gently.

“We thought they were fires. But when the wind picked up, we realized it was tear gas. They rushed the stage-”

His fingers dig into her, breathing gone heavy and tight. She nuzzles him and pets his back.

“Did you see people getting hurt?”

Jimmy stiffens at her question, reluctance in every muscle. 

“Yes.”

She thinks of him locked in a utility closet, screams and shouts echoing violently. Thinly separated from the hysteria. Stifled in the summer heat - in the panic. A complete sensory overload.

In a rush, Jimmy continues “I spoke to someone, the promoter... maybe it was his assistant, about the number of police. It makes the crowd nervous, easy to provoke, a bad vibe all around. Robert tried to get them to calm down but-”

“But?” she prompts softly.

He slumps against her. “Someone threw a bottle at a guard and it all erupted.”

“And that’s when you had to hide.”

Voice a rasp. “Yes.”

At length, she asks, “Who got you out?”

“Can’t remember, the hall was filled with smoke. Tear gas,” he corrects himself. “Next thing, I’m in a car with Robert and we’re back here.”

Something lurks beneath his deadened voice. She hesitates to broach it but senses she must. Despite his hold, she pulls away to meet his eyes. They’re far away and clouded with panic. She brushes her hand over his bearded cheek, cups it, rubs circles into the hair, urging him to come back.

“We shouldn’t be playing.”

Her eyebrows crease at the fervor in his voice.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“All these riots, violence. The crowds keep getting bigger, so the promoter hires more police, people get hurt. It’s militant and-”

“Jimmy,” she says in protest.

“ _ No _ , Emma. It was brutal.”

She takes his face in both hands now, looks him squarely.

“It was a political demonstration. They used the crowd, and Zeppelin by extension. But it could have easily happened to another group.”

Denial creases his expression.

“You weren’t there.”

“I know,” she says, firm and even. “I wasn’t.” She lowers her gaze to his mouth then back to his eyes. “I wasn’t there but I’m saying that the gigs themselves, the music itself, isn’t some call to violence and destruction.”

Guilt overwhelms his features. Jimmy tries to pull her once more into him but she just holds his face.

“We shouldn’t be playing,” he repeats weakly.

“You should.” She gives him a little shake as his eyes slide shut. “You should play. The connection, the energy, it’s a part of you.”

Eventually, one of his hands leaves her hip to rest over one of her hands, molded to his cheek. He leans into her hold, the thumb swirling his skin.

“You could not have done anything,” she repeats, slow and steady. “It was out of your control.”

Gripping her words one at a time, Jimmy searches her expression and gradually accepts her meaning.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “I know. Me too.”

Jimmy kisses her palm and she nestles against his chest again. After a while she notices the gooseflesh on his arms. The room is drafty and chilled. As if reading her mind, Jimmy says,

“I need a shower. Come with me?”

Under the spray, skin wet and clean and pink from the heat, she leans into him and he into her. Their kisses are slow and learning, made of appreciation. A catalogue of his taste and texture, the sleek hair spun between her fingers. His sounds of pleasure in her mouth. The frequent pulling away, just to witness. The care he takes washing her body, lips glancing her bruised forehead. 

“Why were you nervy?” Jimmy asks suddenly, arms wrapped around her, long fingers splayed casually over her backside. At her nonplussed look, he clarifies. “When you fell on the stairs.”

“Oh, I....” her eyebrows furrow. “I had a bad dream. Can’t recall it now but my heart wouldn’t stop racing. I was hurrying up the stairs in the dark, careless really, and I tripped.”

Jimmy makes a low sound and palms the back of her head, urges her to rest on his shoulder.

“Are you nervous right now, darling?”

“No,” she presses closer, “I’m not nervous right now.”

“Good.”

They stand quietly, with water streaming down their bodies. She follows his waist, down to his hips, and fingers the skin there. His lower abdomen with its crisp trail of hair, glossy sheen on his skin, all of it slipping under her fingertips. Jimmy shifts against her, hardness prodding her belly. She looks up to see half a smile caught in his lips. Eyes laden with desire.

She tips her head for a kiss, asking with fingers curled around his erection, “May I?”

Jimmy hums his yes and she makes a fist around the silky length, worries the slit on his tip. He makes a gruff noise when she kisses his nipple and swipes her tongue over the peak.

A mere handful of minutes on her knees and Jimmy stutters her name, clutching her head, hips jerking as he spills into her waiting mouth. She sits back to meet his gaze. Expression no longer cloudy or pained. Languid and drowsy. She tugs him to bed.

How they ended up in this position, she doesn’t know. Sprawled diagonally across the mattress, with Jimmy at her feet, clutching her calf under one arm like a stack of books. All traces of the sheets and majority of the pillows either hang from the edge of the bed or rest on the floor. Jimmy grumbles when she adjusts her position and clutches her calf tighter. At her quiet laugh, he rolls over.

“Darling,” he mumbles, crawling to her and promptly dropping to her chest. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

She rubs the bottoms of her feet over his legs, relishing his weight atop her.

“Did you have another bad dream?” He sounds more awake now, serious. 

“No,” she breathes a laugh, “I woke naturally.”

He heaves a deep breath. “Feels like I haven’t slept properly in ages.”

“Clearly all you needed were my legs for a pillow,” she teases.

Jimmy raises his head and crinkles form at the edges of his eyes. 

“Clearly.”

“You want to go back to sleep?”

He shakes his head. “No, my darling. I want you to kiss me.”

Her fingertips flit over his pink lips and she nudges him closer. The kiss is equal parts heat and hazy exploration. Jimmy cradles her face and tilts her back, sucking at her bottom lip, utterly immersed in the act of grinding his body against hers in an unyielding pulse. The length of his erection slips between her sex to press her clit. Jimmy pulls back at her sharp breath.

“Do  _ you _ want to go back to sleep?”

“No,” she breathes, “I want you inside me.”

Jimmy guides her thighs up and around his waist. He stretches her, he always does, drawing back to suckle each nipple until she’s clutching him with her nails, her hips hitching. A reflexive whimper escapes her when he reaches between them to roll her clit under his thumb. Buried to the hilt, propped enticingly above her, she delivers kisses across his shoulders. Moans at the slow, shuddering thrusts he gives her. Drinks deeply from that well of tenderness.

Jimmy keeps that driving rhythm even though the gush and seize of her orgasm. Holds her still to suck along her outstretched throat. He pulls out, pops free from her shuddering body, and bids her look. All of him slick and shining from her come. The lips of her sex furling around his cock as he plunges inside. Glossy black pubic hair crushed in her lighter curls. Her head falls back when Jimmy grinds against the swollen button of her clit.

“Again,” he says, soft and searing at her ear. “Again, my darling.”

She clasps him inside and tenses before the flow of release - fractured and sweet. Turning her face to his beard, she sobs his name and locks her ankles around his back. His hips snap to hers, cheeks a damp pink, breathing ragged as he spills inside her. The slick leaks from between her legs while Jimmy lolls on her breast.

Dark locks slipping through her fingers, she shapes his name.

“Jimmy.”

“Hmm?”

“We can go somewhere if you like.”

“Go somewhere?” he mumbles, an absent kiss pressed to her breast.

“Yes. Montreux is a month out. If you’d like to go somewhere in the meantime, we can.”

Jimmy stiffens at the mention of another gig. She holds him.

“Just a thought,” she says softly. “If it’d help. We can also go home.”

Jimmy digests that while he pulls himself above her. She thumbs his lower lip, the hair just below, and raises her head to kiss that plump curve. Then the apple of each cheek, his puffy lower lids, the bridge of his nose, its curved tip. Jimmy makes a little sound of pleasure when she finishes. 

He rolls them to the side and drapes one leg over both of hers, curving an arm above her head.

“Will you come with me to Montreux?” he asks, a bruised edge to his request. “Just for a bit, before we head to the States.”

She strokes his back and nods.

“Pangbourne in the meantime,” he adds. A smile pleats his eyes.

She grins back and kisses his mouth. “Pangbourne in the meantime.”


End file.
